The Voyage of the Unquiet Ice

by Andrew McGahan

  Dow certainly had no business there now. He made his way forward to the main stairway, passing by great wooden bins piled high with sacks of flour and beans and rice, and further along carefully stacked and lashed barrels that contained salted meats and fish – for the Second Lower was a deck used mainly for stowage. He encountered no one else; the only other people who lived this deep down were the carpenter and his apprentices, and their workshop was all the way off in the bow.

  The main stairway was amidships, and climbed as steeply as a ladder. When Dow was only a few steps up, the Chloe tilted especially sharply and he had to clutch at the rail. There was no arguing it, this was by far the worst rolling he’d experienced. It was not that he was worried the ship would tilt enough to capsize – Johannes had seemed quite unconcerned in that regard.

  Yes, but up in the rigging …

  Dow steeled himself and climbed on. He was ascending now through the First Lower deck – home, amid more storage bins, to the general sick bay and the brig (the latter all too familiar from Dow’s disastrous first visit to the ship) as well as the Chloe’s two magazines; great iron-bound rooms behind whose locked doors lay the battleship’s supply of gunpowder. But the deck was still below the waterline, and so mostly dark and uninhabited. It was only as Dow continued up the ladder that he finally left the Chloe’s underworld behind and rose into the sounds and smells of its living heart – the gun decks.

  The lowest of the three was known as the Third Gun, and here Dow was above water level at last. On either hand daylight glinted around the edges of the gunports. Indeed, if a firing drill had been in process and the gunports thrown back then the deck would have been brightly lit, for it was mostly one large open space. But for now the ports were shut, and in the crowded dimness some two hundred and thirty-two men – the ship’s Second Company – were readying themselves to go on watch.

  The Third Gun was their home; they ate there and slept there and idled their spare hours there, all of it next to their guns. There were thirty-six cannon on the deck, eighteen to a side. Tables and benches were set up in the free spaces between them by day, and at night every inch of ceiling bore hammocks. But all of it, hammocks and bedding, tables and benches, could be cleared away in a few moments if battle stations should be called.

  For the present the men were merely finishing up their breakfast. Some were carting bowls and mugs back to the ship’s galley, which was in the stern of this deck; others were stowing away hammocks and scrubbing tables; and others again were crowding to the toilets and washrooms in the bow. Dow had to squeeze his way through the belching, farting, swearing mass to reach the next stairway, and though he moved as unobtrusively as he could, the ships heavy rolling meant he was thrown bodily against this man or that, and so received many ill-tempered stares and elbows jabbed deliberately into his ribs.

  He was not, he knew, liked by these men. They might have been friendly to New Island folk when visiting Stone Port, but Dow had learned that they thought very differently about a New Islander roaming aboard their own vessel. They resented it, no matter who that New Islander was, or what wondrous feats he might have performed in a maelstrom. Sailing was their prerogative – said the jabbing elbows – and no one else’s. As for letting him become an able seaman, Dow could read their thoughts on the matter as easily as if they’d spoken them aloud – what could the captain be thinking?

  A question Dow himself had often asked.

  The truth was, even after all these weeks at sea, he still understood little of what Vincente had planned for him. Yes, he knew that he’d been taken on board because of what he’d witnessed, at the captain’s side, on the night of the Stone Port attack. Vincente needed him to confirm the existence, to the Ship Kings high authorities, of the strange, self-propelled boat.

  But after Dow had done that? What then?

  A gloomy realisation had settled upon him in the early days of the voyage. He was at sea at last – but he wasn’t really sailing. Not yet. For he had no role on the Chloe, no purpose. He was little more than a prisoner – in fact, he was something even worse; he was a passenger. And what was the fate of passengers? They were delivered to a destination, then forgotten. Most probably Vincente intended that once Dow’s usefulness was at an end, he would simply be ferried home again on the next convenient ship.

  This was why Dow had grasped so eagerly at the suggestion to train as an able seaman; it offered hope that he could become something more than useless cargo. Perhaps he might even find a permanent place on the Chloe. The only puzzle was – why had Vincente agreed? If he intended to return Dow to New Island, then why waste time training him? One the other hand, even if Vincente did mean to keep Dow on as a crewmember, how could he? The captain had already defied Ship Kings law by taking a New Islander onboard even as a passenger – surely it was doubly illegal to enlist one?

  But in his interview with Dow – a few curt words on the high deck – Vincente had offered no clues as to his reasoning. He had been severe and distant, and done no more than give brusque assent.

  Dow had not spoken with him since. It was another puzzle, and a saddening one, for he’d thought, back on New Island, that a bond of some sort had been formed between himself and the captain. But then again, if there was one thing he’d learned about life upon a battleship at sea, it was that a captain was a remote and forbidding figure to his crew. He was master over all, and the power of life and death was in his hands, absolute and unquestioned. He had no need to explain himself to his inferiors.

  On Dow climbed, passing now through the Second Gun deck. It housed another thirty-six guns, and another two hundred and thirty-two men – the ship’s First Company – but was currently silent and deserted, for the company was still on watch topside. Then came the First Gun deck, smaller than the two below, carrying only twenty-eight cannon, and home to only the sixty marines who formed the ship’s armed guard. But here the illumination was almost full, for daylight streamed through the upper hatches. Dow ascended the final stairs and emerged at last into the open air of the main deck.

  Even after nearly two months of voyaging it was still thrilling to him. The morning was grey and sunless, and the wind was cold, but none of that mattered. None of his doubts mattered either, at least for a moment. He was at sea. Dow drew a grateful breath of the salt air. Overhead, a full spread of sails stood white against the bleak sky, and all around was the Great Ocean – grey-green beneath the clouds, veined with white foam, and extending off to horizons unblemished at any point by the stain of land.

  No, of this at least he was certain. These brief weeks on the Chloe had only whetted his appetite for the sea. He could not allow himself to be returned to New Island. Another way must be found. And the first step would be to pass Fidel’s test and become an able seaman.

  Ah, but the rolling …

  Dow could see the cause of it now. Long, broad waves were sweeping in procession down from the north, each rounded crest separated from the next by a deep trough.

  The waves lay directly abeam the Chloe’s eastward path, and so the great battleship was swaying as each swell rose and then sank away under its keel. From where Dow stood the ocean itself seemed to rear up hugely on one hand, almost to the level of the deck, before plunging away again and rearing up inexorably on the opposite rail.

  He turned to the Chloe’s mainmast, the tallest of the three, and with a reluctant fascination let his gaze climb slowly to the mast’s very tip, and to the tiny basket of the crow’s nest. A lone figure rode up there, a tousled head and hunched shoulders visible over the basket rim, moving against the clouds as the mast swung back and forth in great arcs.

  Dow swallowed in queasy anticipation, and looked away.

  Shortly afterwards, eight bells rang out, and with ordered commotion the watches changed over, the two hundred men of the First Company hurrying below to their breakfast, and the two hundred men of the Second Company swarming onto the main deck to begin their day’s duty. Mates and lieutenants bawled or
ders as men ascended the shrouds.

  Amid it all, Dow made his way to the stern castle and reported to the marines at the foot of the stairs. From there he was escorted up to Commander Fidel on the high deck. The first officer was busy at the ship’s wheel, instructing the two helmsmen, newly come on duty, of their course; slightly south of east, by the compass.

  By the compass. Only two months ago Dow would have been baffled by such a phrase. He knew better now. Oh, there was still a mystery to the device; exactly why the iron needle always pointed north was something that even Johannes, a blacksmith, could not really explain. But Dow had seen that navigation involved far more than just knowing north; the real secret lay in daily observations of the sun and stars, and in calculations made with pen and paper, and books and charts and hourglasses. According to Johannes it took years of study to master the art; and without such skill no man could become an officer, let alone ever hope to command a ship.

  Dow, of course, could not even read …

  At length Fidel – satisfied with the state of the vessel, and handing command to the lieutenant on watch – turned to Dow. If Captain Vincente was held in awe by the crew, and feared and loved in equal measure, then the first officer was regarded with something closer to fondness. He was quite old, and his thin, thoughtful face always looked sad, rather than stern. But he was much respected all the same, and considered to be very wise, being, as well as a commander, a historian and scholar.

  Indeed, it was Fidel himself who’d been tutoring Dow in basic seamanship over the last weeks. Such a menial chore was far beneath the first officer’s rank and dignity, but for some reason Fidel had assumed the role without complaint. Perhaps it was because Dow’s position on board was so unusual – or perhaps, as Dow himself suspected, it was because no one else on the Chloe, other than Johannes, was willing to help.

  Fidel’s expression now, as he contemplated his student, was sombre but kindly. ‘Good morning, Mr Amber,’ he said, folding his hands behind his back. ‘It would seem we’ve encountered heavy seas.’

  ‘Aye, Excellency,’ Dow responded, standing to attention as best he could with the deck canting so steeply under his feet.

  Fidel glanced out over the waves. ‘And how would you account for it? Such swells, and yet with no great gale behind them?’

  ‘I don’t know, Excellency.’

  ‘No, I don’t expect that you would. The ways and whims of the weather are not something a new hand can learn in a week or two.’ Fidel studied the ocean once again. ‘Take note then. Waves like these mean that somewhere far to the north a mighty storm is raging, a storm so vast that it has cast out a swell that rolls even here, many days sail from the eye of the tempest. So it often is during late autumn and early winter, for the icy realms are terrible then. Be grateful we are seeing no worse than this, and that our course lies eastward. It’s an unlucky ship that it is forced north at this time of year.’

  ‘Aye, Excellency,’ said Dow again, but his stomach dropped as the ship lurched into yet another trough, and from the corner of his eye he saw the crow’s nest describe another arc, high above the deck.

  ‘To the test then,’ said Fidel.

  And so began a half hour of examination. Fidel at first questioned Dow on the particulars of the Chloe itself. What was the length of the ship? (Two hundred and ninety feet.) What was the shallowest water in which it could sail? (Thirty feet.) How many anchors were on board? (Seven, varying in size and shape, the largest twice the height of a man.) And so on.

  Then came questions about the ship’s day-to-day running. What was the rotation of the companies and the watches? (First Watch, First Company, Midnight to Eight Bells; Second Watch, Second Company, Eight Bells to Noon; Third Watch, First Company, Noon to Four Bells; Fourth Watch, Second Company, Four Bells to midnight.) What was the chain of command on board? (The captain, then the first officer, then the two lieutenant-commanders, then the nine lieutenants, then the various mates and masters, and lastly the twelve midshipmen – mere boys mostly, in training to be officers – all set over the six hundred or so men of the common crew.)

  Next came queries about the rigging; Dow had to list with their proper names the full multitude of the Chloe’s different sails, then the lines which controlled them, then the myriad belays and halyards and clews and pins that held them fast. Then he was asked to explain what various commands or whistles meant in regard to the setting or furling or trimming of those sails.

  And on it went.

  For all his nervousness, Dow found he actually had no trouble in answering such questions. Just as he had instinctively grasped the workings of small boats, all those months ago on the calm waters of the Claw, he had quickly grasped the workings of a tall ship too.

  But understanding was not doing, and Dow’s unease only grew as the test progressed. Worse, one by one, various midshipmen and junior lieutenants were emerging from below to loiter about the high deck. They paid Dow no obvious attention, but he was grimly certain that they’d come to observe his examination, especially the final part of it. Last to appear, his long face pinched red by the wind, was Lieutenant Diego, who smirked at his fellows, then leant on the rail with a bored and indifferent air that Dow knew was entirely feigned.

  Soon after, Commander Fidel came to the end of his questioning; he straightened and glanced austerely about at sky and sea once more. ‘Very well, Mr Amber. I’m satisfied as to your theory. But theory is only so much use. Ultimately, a seaman must show practical proficiency.’ He smiled thinly. ‘How high is the mainmast, measuring from the main deck?’

  Dow’s heart sank, for all that he’d known this was coming. ‘Two hundred and seventy feet, Excellency.’

  ‘A long ascent, and a long way to fall. But we can’t have an able seaman who is afraid of heights, can we?’

  ‘No, Excellency.’

  So it had come. This was always the last part of a seaman’s test, to climb to the crow’s nest and stand a full watch there. Dow had not yet climbed so high. Indeed, he’d been expressly forbidden from doing so before now. By long tradition, the test itself had to be the first time.

  ‘Very well then,’ said Fidel sternly, but also with a half smile, ‘report to the crow’s nest immediately, Mr Amber.’

  Dow saluted, then spun and made for the steps leading down to the main deck. Several of the junior officers, Diego in the lead, had already slipped ahead of him. In fact, as Dow descended, he noted a change all about the ship. On the main deck, gangs who had been set scrubbing or painting now left off their chores to sit back and watch; likewise, those at work in the rigging had paused to hang idly from various vantage points.

  The tension in Dow tightened a notch further. He approached the mainmast shrouds, the ladder-like ropes that gave access aloft, running up at a steep angle from fixed points by the rail. And lounging at the same rail, their backs to the sea and their feet braced against the slant of the deck, were Diego and his friends. As Dow came up, Diego smirked once more, muttering something inaudible, and the others broke into laughter.

  Dow said nothing, only set his hands to the shrouds, and began to climb, his lips pressed thin with anger and concentration. He was not totally inexperienced at this, for he’d been allowed to ascend the shrouds to a certain height in his training. And the ropes were strung firmly, so there was no particular difficulty in mounting them – at least in normal conditions.

  But the rolling of the ship changed everything. At one moment the ladder seemed to be almost horizontal, as the Chloe tilted away towards the far railing, and then, when it tilted back, the ladder would go to vertical and beyond. And worse, the rolling made the great mainmast itself flex as it whipped back and forth, and so the shrouds, fixed to the mast, were alternately sagging and then snapping tight under Dow’s hands.

  Even so, before long, he was nearing the top of the lower shrouds, which was as high as he’d ever climbed, a hundred and forty feet up. Already the main deck looked faraway and narrow. But now came his first rea
l test, for to reach the upper mast meant climbing over the musket deck, the small platform which topped the lower mast, and upon which the upper mast stood. It was called the musket deck because at battle stations a party of marines were posted there to snipe at opposing ships.

  The problem was that to reach the platform a climber had to swing out under the overhang and then haul himself over the edge. There were ropes fixed for that very purpose, and Dow had seen it done hundreds of times by the crew, effortlessly – but he’d never done it himself. He looked out to sea; a series of green hills and valleys were in motion beneath the ship. But if he timed it so that the Chloe was upright upon one of the crests … He swung himself out, knowing that the longer he delayed, the harder it would become. But it was more awkward then he’d expected to get an arm beyond the overhang, and in the meantime the Chloe slid from the crest; suddenly there was no deck beneath Dow, there was only a gulf of air and then the water. His feet slipped from the ropes and for instant of terror he dangled there, as laughter came piercing from below.

  But it was only a moment, then the ship was in the trough and rolling back again, and without quite knowing how Dow had his feet secure in the ropes and was manhandling himself over the rim of the musket deck to safety. From below, and from other places in the rigging, he heard more laughter, and also a slow, sarcastic clapping of hands.

  He raised himself to standing, fingers gripped tightly to the upper shrouds, and gazed about while he regained his breath. Walls of canvas rose all around him; mainsails, topsails, royals and gallants, mizzens and jibs – and many other studs and stays besides – all rippling and snapping as the cold breeze ebbed and surged. But the mainmast rose above them all. Dow took a last breath, set his foot to the upper shrouds, and climbed once more.

  The ladder was steeper and narrower now. And as he ascended above the larger sails, more light and air opened about him, so that the nakedness of the fall below was all the more exposed. And now he began to experience the true awfulness of the ship’s rolling. It was no longer a matter of queasy undulations; two hundred feet above the deck, it was a matter of being flung bodily back and forth in long stomach-lifting swoops as the sky and the sea pitched and plummeted and traded places.